David Pirooz
A Hotel at the Centre of the World
Mitch sprawled in the patio chair making the most of his time before his shift as chef began. He took deep draughts on the spliff he was enjoying. There was also myself (the waiter /guest services person), having a coffee and the manager, Manfred, an Upper Tyrolean, seated before a round table reading the paper in the back garden on a sunny morning, birds twittering away. ‘Er, I hope it won’t be busy for lunch, today. I don’t think I could stomach it. I don’t feel top notch. Neptune is transiting my moon, I think.’ Mitch said it with a combination of a lisp and a Yorkshire accent which was curiously endearing.
Manfred, who was more Italian than Austrian, banged the table and said, ‘We are going to make you work like a donkey or we’ll send you to Neptune. You’re not paid to be lying around getting high.’ Was he joking? No one could ever tell. ‘Who would want this job,’ asked Mitch, who worked hard when it was necessary, which was rarely. The restaurant was not used by the guests. They ate out usually. When there were wedding banquets, then he was run off his feet.
‘I was thinking about making a nice duck and basil risotto today,’ Mitch said staring straight ahead in reverie. He was a creative young cook from Yorkshire, a county that had its own unique attachment to nourishment and cuisine. He made many a tasty dish.
‘Oh, I’d like some of that, thank you,’ I volunteered.
Manfred interjected, ‘No, we must use up that Chateaubriand before it goes off. Save the risotto for Garibaldi Day.’
‘Don’t you Italians eat swordfish with shallots on Garibaldi Day?
No, it will be duck for today.’ Mitch objected stubbornly.
Manfred glared. ‘Stick your swordfish up the junction.’ His Italian temper showing. He’d learnt some choice insults.
Mitch smiled.‘The Chef sets the menu.’ And then changing subjects, ‘How is La Reine Margot, this fine morn?’
Manfred looked down at the paper, studying the stock prices. ‘There is no duck. Cornish hen maybe… They were at it all last night. I haven’t seen her yet.’ He was referring to the Lord and Lady of the Manor. ‘She almost pushed him into the pool, and I heard some shouting before I left.’
Mitch gave a tittle. ‘I don’t think Adam knows how to swim. Hope she doesn’t take it out on me. I don’t need any more aggro.’ Then he brightened up. ‘Cycled into Edenswan last night, it was magical. Down the back lanes. Big, fat glow-worms in all the fields. It was as bright as midday. A full moon.’
‘What were you doing there?’ Manfred shot him a sly glance.
‘I had a drink with a bird I met; she’s going to do me a tattoo of a butterfly when I get the money.’
‘Oh, a pretty little butterfly…a papillion,’ I teased him.
Mitch suddenly looked stern, ‘My fave, McQueen and Hoffman escaping Devils Island. True story. Epic.’
‘I’m a butterfly, a butterfly.’ He grinned goodnaturedly, flapping his arms.
‘You’re a lazy butterfly. A lazy, English butterfly. Fly away,’ muttered Manfred, who was newly married to a clean, local country girl with a light, carefree soul. Manfred, swarthy, intense, ambitious, often busy attending to every detail thought Mitch a typical English layabout but chefs were hard to come by. ‘We had gone through three in two months. The English are parasites (except my lovely wife, Eleanor). You are not English, are you?’ he once said to me. Manfred turned a page.
‘What was going on in No.8, last night?’ he asked. I took a sip of coffee, watched a hummingbird dancing in a rosebush in the back garden, which was a landscaped oval, some roses, some bougainvilla, quite private. The sky was morning electric blue.
‘No.8…No.8, I don’t know…. I am not the house detective. The Gentleman and his paramour got out of an Aston Martin last night, asked for a bottle of Chianti, and retired for the evening. Don’t think they are married, but like I say, none of my business…Gorgeous woman.’
Manfred rustled the paper. ‘Paramour …bollocks. Someone was phoning after them this morning and he sounded pretty pissed. I told him nothing.’
Mitch took a drag on his joint and asked, ‘Who is the queer bird in No. 4? Looks like a hobo of some kind. A space cadet. Wanted beans on toast again after the kitchen had closed. I gave him a can and a can opener.’
Manfred looked up from the paper sharply. ‘No.4…been here a week, no luggage and only paid the first night in cash. Gina didn’t like the look of him and told me to keep an eye on him, but he hasn’t left his room.’
‘Could be one of those artistic types,’ I suggested. ‘Isn’t the festival on in a couple of days?’
Manfred waved his hand, ‘A con artist if you ask me. He’s going to settle his tab, today or he’s going to be talking to the constable. There’s a lot of canaglia floating around what with the “Great Happening” every year. Two days ago, five people went into the Ring O’Bells pub and ordered Roast Lamb, a few bottles of Champagne, ran for the door and scattered in different directions. They got two of them on the heath but no money.
‘Bella Figura,’ Mitch laughed quietly.
‘The Great Happening…is that when the astrologers, stilt walkers, the white witches, the crazy poets and creeping Jesuses show up?’
Manfred coughed, ‘We do good business then, we get double for the rooms. They come from everywhere. Just the restaurant that is quiet…lucky for you, Mitch (he pronounced it meech).’
The hummingbird flew off dazzlingly. I remembered it was Sunday, last week of June, my second month at the hotel. I could hear the cries of children, playing or fighting, I didn’t know which, over at the Big House across the hedge. ‘Oh, there was a group came in from Czechoslovakia yesterday, rather sniffy. Asked how many bottles we made and was it from our own grapes and they had never heard of English white wine, liked to try it, just out of curiosity. In my role as expert sommelier, I told them it was our own Seyval Blanc and pointed out to the vines. They said they had five hectares in Bohemia, Reisling, award winning. I gave them a complimentary glass each. One of the ladies tapped her nose and stated ‘not bad table wine’, didn’t know what to say and they buggered off, without buying any I recall
‘…Back to Central Europe, I assume.’ Mitch said.
Manfred clucked, ‘Well strictly speaking, they are English grapes, but not from our vines. I think Adam gets them at the car boot sale at Slitherhollow.’
‘It don’t matter’ offered Mitch loudly, ‘The day will come when English wine will conquer the world.’
‘Of course, it will,’ said a quiet voice. It was Gina, appearing at the table, the proprietress, long blonde hair a little messy as if she had only just tumbled out of bed, ‘How are my three cavalieri, this morning?’ Manfred rose abruptly taking her hand, ‘Very well Signora, very well. And you?’, he asked solicitously.
God those Italians are amazing to women, I thought. There is just no matching them. They loved women, all women. He handled her lovingly like a priceless Murano vase. And it was all genuine, absolutely genuine. She nodded at Mitch took the joint out of his hand and daintily took a puff.
‘I’m alright, Gina, love.’ He had a strained relationship with her. They worked on the menus together, sometimes, fractiously. Gina glanced at me inquiringly.
‘Hi Gina, I’m fine, thank you very much.’ In fact, I was a little afraid of her. She was softly attractive, peaches and cream, but tended to look a little long, at times, at one, as if to solve a mystery in her own mind. Manfred let go of her hand gently.
Gina tugged at the sleeve of her white, wrinkled pantsuit, ‘I would be fine Manny…if it wasn’t for that bastard…He’s stolen my American Express.’ Manfred tried to comfort her.
‘Oh, that is tragique. I am so sorry Signora. Maybe he will give it back to you.’
‘I have to get things for the hotel. And for the kids.’ Gina said this plaintively as she looked over, with her eyes black with rage and venom, at the Big House which was just visible over the hedges, where she had just come from, through into the back patio. ‘He better give it back…or he will find his beloved Alpha a bit messed up. It might have no windows and the wheels might be a bit flat.’ She giggled as she was wont to. ‘Or he might have to sleep with one eye open if he doesn’t already.’ She let out a sigh, ‘He has no right. That’s my card. Doesn’t matter if he pays the bills. It’s my property.’
We three were silent until Mitch said, ‘We were just talking about what the main course should be today. I thought duck risotto with basil, alla Aglio e Olio.’ Gina patted her halo of blond hair, ‘Bravo, stupenda…but will there be any customers to eat it? Only three covers, yesterday. Good thing the weddings bring in a lot of money.’ She was in charge of the weddings, organising with the bride, woman to woman, making sure the big day went without a hiccup. Trouble was, it rubbed salt in the wound because at the same time her big day never arrived. Adam was proving recalcitrant.
Mitch took a last drag on what was left of the joint, ‘I’d like to give it a try anyway. Be a challenge. I had one in Verona a couple of years ago. Memorable. Can still taste it.’
‘Well, if Manny agrees, why not?’
Manfred shook his head, ‘Manny does not. The fridges are full of left-over food. I don’t know about adding to it.’ Gina suddenly stiffened. ‘Oh yes, about No.4…the tramp who came up the path last week…Adam found his door barricaded when they went to service the room…called the police. No money. Shouted out that the World would end next Sunday and Hell would welcome us all. God what a business! Good thing we have the weddings.’ As she spoke that word her eyes glazed over sadly.
‘Not to worry Signora, we’ll sort out the menu.’
She turned and left for the Big House, ‘You’re an angel Manny, an angel.’
After she was gone, ‘Hell will welcome you all.’ Mitch turned the phrase over repeating it. ‘Has a nice ring to it.’ At that moment, the sun appeared from behind a tree, searing and promising a scorching day ahead.
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The following Saturday morning the hotel was the scene of frantic activity. Rain was forecast so marquees and tents had to be set out on the lawn beside the hotel, in case. It was to be a great Celtic nuptial. The scion of a Dublin family was marrying a Scottish lass from a Glasgow clan. The Dubliners were James Joyce characters with money and educated, the Glaswegians were cultured, more Mackintosh than the Gorbals or Eastwood. Adam was excited since it was a pay bar, so he expected it to bring in lots of cash for the beverages after the wedding party. I had seen him at past events regularly emptying the till of bundles of bills, taking them to the safe he kept in the Big House. The hotel was full, with guests at the pool, in the gardens, on the lawn, convivial with much banter, laughter, and socializing. Mitch was frazzled, He had had to prepare chicken or beef with potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, veg, gravy, fresh buns, and soup and salad for a hundred people. For dessert it was trifle or chocolate eclairs. He had five assistants, inexperienced lads and much of it had been prepared. The trick was the timing of everything. The gravy had to be very hot in case the elements of the main dish were not.
Manfred at his intense best like the admiral of a fleet in battle, directing the squad of local farm girls who ran around filling orders and seeing to the guests’s requests. Gina floated above it all, golden, ethereal, keeping close to the bride, occasionally whispering in Manfred’s ear. The sky was pellucid, cloudless and might stay that way. A storm would be an unexpected complication but by midday it seemed to have become less of a possibility as the weather smiled benignly on the proceedings.
I tended the outside bar because there were always those who had scarcely taken a break from the excesses of the night before and walked around with champagne or ale in their hands, an idiosyncrasy, I believed particular to the Celts with their amazing stamina when it came to convivial gatherings.
Gina had come in at 5 a.m. declaring before the surviving remnants, ‘The bar is closed!’ I was drooping with my head on the counter, barely conscious. When they sheepishly protested, Gina cited licensing rules which Dermot, the Dublin attorney pointed out did not apply to private spaces, his mug of Guinness getting perilously low. Gina even more emphatically repeated, ‘Closed!’ and I started cleaning up, Most of the night had been a lovely experience as Dermot from Dublin introduced me to Gerald, an architect from Galway (‘don’t believe a word he says and watch your wallet’) and Fergus, a professor at Stirling University introduced me to his cousin Annie (‘still waters my boy, still waters…’) and Bernadette with her arms around her boy and girl sang a delicate love song in a professional voice, Michael, an executive of Allied Irish Bank and Alistair, a cellist with Dublin Philharmonic talked over the finer points of chapter 10 of Ulysses, (‘episodes not chapters…well, be pedantic why don’t you?’) and debated the Chinese ‘Luong’. Was it a dragon or a serpent and did the Japanese one differs from the Chinese? ‘It’s a ‘luong’ shot said someone. You’re all just pretentious, Nouveau Riche; you know that Celtic Tiger, it’s more of a Weasel,’ said Albert the taxi driver from Liverpool, in a piercing Scouse accent. ‘That shall not go unchallenged! ’, joked one. While some teens ran in and out, chided by their parents and a babe in a cradle slept blissfully in a corner (‘Aidan keep it down, little Maeve is sleeping.’)
Now, the following day, around the betrothed swirled the legions in their suits and gowns, the clean wind rippling the silk of the dresses, the ties of the men, and the hair of the bridesmaids. In the distance, agricultural workers were doing something in the fields (maybe trimming hedges) and beyond that, cars heading to the site of the ‘Great Happening’, which was occurring the following week, when the vibrations of the earth and the air would, (according to some), with the help of a lot of ear-splitting music, converge there. The stars would align and the world would be reborn once more, at its very navel once the crowds and the cacophony subsided. We were at the very epicentre of it, where sacred ley lines converged, if you believed some of the guests. The navel of the cosmos. AQ